


Nine

by worldengine



Series: Fourteen Days [4]
Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love, Man of Steel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldengine/pseuds/worldengine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part IV in the "Fourteen Days" Series. Please read Parts I - III first! </p><p>It's been 9 days since Lois has seen Clark. This is what happens on that 9th day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine

I am perched leagues above a crippled skyline; like a lone fowl wearing red on his back, I pause, waiting for the right moment to fly. Gazing – no – _listening_ to the world as it goes on and on beneath me, is how time is measured these days. In some ways I am a big part of it all, of this planet, but like my Earth mother once said to me, "the devil's in the details, son."

And therein lies the problem: I'm as much a human being as I am a Kryptonian ...that's to say I'm not all that good at playing the part of either species. Do I belong on Earth? Would Krypton, had it survived, ever seen fit to accept me? The live-birth son of its foremost rebellious scientist? These questions have unfastened an emptiness I've always sensed but I realize it's up to me how all of this will shape the man Jonathan Kent envisioned. Can I bear this these pressures? Can I stand the weight that's been placed upon and atop my shoulders? Am I worthy enough?

I close my eyes and revel in the air currents as they pass by. The cape billows and floats behind my body, and I think of how intricate the Kryptionian fabric must be to have withstood such unmentionable horrors.

The same cannot be said for Metropolis.

At that, I envision a layer of red enveloping the city beneath me; as if my Kryptonian uniform could transform into an endless manteau, shielding the good people from harm, just as it has done for me. But visions are wishes or experiences we long to have happen. Neither of those options, in this moment, can do me any good. I revert my attention back to real-time and try to ignore the subtle gasps that sneak through my lips. My human side is heartbroken by all I glimpse. 

I attempt to focus on a sliver lining. 

But while it's true that the city _has_ improved, its progress has been marginal. Yet changes can be found from the birds-eye view I sporadically maintain (such as right now). Up here it is quieter, well, as much as I allow it to be, and for that I feel both grateful and abhorrent: of all the citizens of Metropolis, I am not one entitled to peace, not matter how fleeting these moments may be. No measure of solace has been earned. Not yet.

Berating has lead me no where though, so I've opted to thrust myself beyond the guilt, beyond the self-loathe and concentrate, again, on resurrecting a city of promise and aspiration. Metropolis _must_ be rebuilt. I cannot live fully unless that is so. This same determination, unsurprising though it may be, applies to the reconstruction of Smallville as well.

So I partition my time to serve both the people and the towns, the shattered hearts and those with burdens I was somehow fortunate to escape. No loved one of mine was lost in this war of the worlds, and while my thankfulness is overwhelming, I reel from the pangs of loss and grief that drown those left here alongside me.

Their ashen faces speak of hope and endurance but their eyes – those eyes are emptied out and angered. They've had immeasurable catastrophes too great to bare, and so they work below and around me entrenched within the clutches of denial. Whether they do this to save their sanity or to remain an active part of the rebuild, I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps a little bit of both is reason enough.

Even now, high above them I can sense the bored-out holes. In the earth, in their souls – it's all-consuming.

I redirect my thoughts – again – and fold open today's edition of the Daily Planet. This, like all the other days, was the reason for my minute reprieve.

What I see is... _Oh._

Lois has--well she's written an article. Just like she does each day, but this one--I don't quite understand...

**SUPERMAN: FOR THE PEOPLE?** **By: Lois Lane, Daily Planet**

**Sources close to the mute Man of Steel aren't saying much these days–and neither is he! Which begs the obvious: is Superman for or against the people? While his efforts to rebuild Metropolis have been more than adequate and nothing short of admirable, the good citizens of this city have a right to know where they stand with our hero in blue. Why has Superman remained unnervingly silent in the wake and aftermath of an attempted alien takeover? Yes, we stand behind him, but is it for the same reason he stands before us now?** **If only our Man of Mystery could be reached for a sound bite would these doubts and puzzling questions be laid to rest.**

I fold the newspaper back again, refusing to read any further. Lois' words were... _mean?_ And the childish response running through this body is as surprising as the editorial itself. I can't assume to know what the remainder of the two-column piece says, as I didn't have the heart to follow through. Or the nerve.

_'Was she angry with me? Was I pushing my one and only Metro-city ally too far by keeping a silent status quo?'_

I resign to give in and see her but only after the day's work feels complete. Which it never has. Not yet. But I will make an exception. For her. For Lois.

Thinking over my decisions to finally break the silence, a line from Robert Frost's famous poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" reverberates through my mind in an instant: _"and miles to go before I sleep."_

††

I made it home after nearly twelve hours spent at the makeshift Daily Planet offices. Logic says I'm of better use when available to the people (for the people?) if they need to access me or any of my colleagues in a rush of notice. We're not directly situated around Ground Zero, for obvious safety precautions, but not too far either and so I've had quite a few eye-witnesses come in and chat about their experiences on that fateful day.

There was a woman who lost her entire family – husband, father, mother, brother – in a flash of debris and firestorms. Her tears were heavy, as was my heart, but in the midst of every earth-shaking word, she remained stoic and fully convinced Superman wasn't to be blamed. That the hero in red and blue was was just that: a true hero. I found comfort within her disposition and thanked her profusely for choosing me to tell her story. 

The next person to sit beside my desk wasn't as cordial, to either myself or the True Hero. 

A man who said his name was "Alexander (Nolastname)" all but fell into the ragged chair and waited for me to switch on my tape recorder. From the nanosecond he heard the minute click, he exploded into a rant that lasted the latter part of my afternoon. Apparently his father was "murdered, right in THAT building, right over there! Don't you see –– no you can't see because it's GONE, all of it! Merely indistinguishable rubble atop charred ground." He paused, be it for dramatic effect or to control his emotions, I've not completely decided. "My father was a good, _good_ man. He once owned that building but left it to me about ten years ago. And now? Now it's destroyed, just as he was! I'm telling you, Lois Lane, Superman will be persecuted for all he's done to this great city." 

Both of his hands were whipping this way and that as he spoke, and while I tried my damnedest to calm the middle-aged, in the end there was little I was able to do. Not that I cared all that much for his tale, if I'm being so honest. 

After the fervent spat of distaste for Metropolis' Man of Steel, Alexander slapped the palm of his hand down onto my note pad, and exited without another word. I was annoyed throughout our entire "interview" but immediately pissed off by his cold words and that abrupt ending. Considering the verbal threat against Superman, I sat there and pondered for too long about why he chose _me_ to unload on.

It wasn't long until I began to internally analyze the man's appearance: showing up with a face hidden behind sunglasses and a bowler's top concealing his head, gaining any insight as to who he was seemed nearly impossible. His voice sounded too low, also. And that was odd. All of it was odd, really. 

But there was nothing more I could do for that story, so I moved on and read a few hand written responses to my **"Superman: For the People?"** article published earlier that morning. The letters were dropped off around lunch time; since most citizens of the city had little access to the internet, they reverted back to antiquated methods of correspondence. Truth be told, I liked the authenticity of it, just didn't enjoy the circumstances that had lead to such a thing happening. 

Anyway, most of the notes were quick and to the point: "I think he's doing us all a bit of good," "I believe in the Man of Steel," I don't know about this guy. I mean, what if he turns on us? What then?"

I read about thirty or so sheets of paper similar to those few, as far as tone went, but couldn't shake the growing fear from that second sit-in. I knew, somewhere within my very person, that Alexander, whoever he was, was serious. 

I needed to see Clark.

††

I saw her arrive home around eight-thirty and breathed a sigh of relief that she had kept herself in one piece. With the city in shambles, I tried my hardest to keep an eye on Lane's whereabouts as much as I could, if only to measure the level of caution she let fly to the wind. Lois had adopted a healthy awareness of her surroundings though, since that first night when she strolled _into_ Ground Zero and I quickly had to flew her home. That was nine days ago and I hadn't seen her, or allowed her to see me, since.

But I'm throwing my self-imposed rules away and giving in tonight. I need to know how _she_ sees me. The world will always believe what they think is fact, but her–Lois needs to know the truth for what it is. 

That I'm remorseful and destroyed inside. That I blame myself and the curse of what my people have done. That their reign of superiority onto a species I hold very near to my heart was unjustified and condemned many times over. 

I need her to know that I am For her. I am For all of them. 

"Clark?" 

She's spotted me. Not that I made it hard for her: I was standing on her balcony, pacing back and forth in primary colors for who knows how long. 

"Lois, hi." My voice is unsteady and I don't know if it's because she is standing right there or because I have so much I want to say to her. A little bit from column A and B, it seems. 

"Can I come in?" I ask, and so far simple words seem okay. I lead with that. 

"Of course. You don't need to ask, Clark. I hope you'd know that by now." 

Her welcoming attitude was confusing me; was I the questionable, mute super being or the man who had saved her life (and been saved by her) a few times now? 

My feet touch down on her cherry-red floors and I feel better immediately. On her level now, no longer am I a man who can fly. Alien no more. "I started to read your editorial today..." I begin, but she holds her hands up and motions for me to be quiet. I do, I am. 

She trots over and wraps her arms tightly around my neck, presses her body to mine. I can hear her breathing me in and I can no longer hold out on doing the same. Lois' hair is wet and smells of fresh springs and lavender. It's enveloping me and removes any residual thoughts of the day; there is no more devastation within her embrace, there is just this moment. And I latch on. I want to collapse into her because of how trusting and open Lois is with me – how she's always been with me. I want to remain here, like this and watch as the demons are chased away from around us. It was wrong of me to doubt her–and I need to say that. 

I grunt a bit as I pull away and stand back from her. Her hands are still clutching my forearms though, and it's clear she needs physical contact from and with me. I crave the same; having been so removed from people these last nine days, the reasons for my exile seem juvenile now. But that's why I'm standing in her apartment. 

"Lois, I need to defuse any and all doubts you may have about me. That's why I've come tonight." 

She stares silently, paused as though I've said words in another language that was wholly foreign to her. "Why haven't you come any other night? Why now? Was it because of the article? Would you have visited me otherwise?" 

Lane is firing off round after round of questioning, and I feel riddled by unseen forces. I explain as best I can: "I stayed away because I wanted to keep you safe from any harm. I didn't know if anyone would try to hurt you in an effort to avenge what's happened to Metropolis. Trust me Lois, I wanted to come to you every night. Every single night, but the threats didn't end with Zod's death. And I fear the future, your future, should you ...have me around for more than just a byline at the Daily Planet." 

"Ouch." She shifts and breaks contact with me, speedily crossing her arms over her chest. "You think I want you because I can draw more readers? You think I've held you at your worst moment because front page editorials were my end game? You don't know me very well, if that's the case." 

I've upset her, and it was completely unintentional. Needing to make it right, I decide it's time for me to give her what she's offered since the first time we shared a connection.

"No, no to all of that. I don't believe you view me as your ticket to winning a Pulitzer anymore than I see you as my claim to fame. Lois, I don't care about any of that." I stop the second her arms fall limply to her sides. 

Lane takes a deep breath and then juts her jaw out before, "then what _do_ you care about, Clark? Besides this city and its people." 

Silently, I close the distance between us two and shift so that my back is to her front. Tilting my head to one side, eye contact is made briefly until, "can you?" 

She knows what it is I'm asking of her. Lois understands what it is I'm giving.

She removes my cape exactly as she had done before and lays it out across the rear of her loveseat, using both of her arms in the process; it's undeniable that she cares for all things directly involved with me. In the time it took to do that, I don't move. She's noticed that and comprehends my invitation for her to continue on, to explore. And without any reservations, I let it happen. Later, I hope to do the same with her, but for now, I'm hers. Completely.

I feel as her fingers work the zipper down the length of my spine until the cool, metallic alloy ceases as it hits the small of my back. In contrast, the heat radiating from her palms as they ease themselves over my shoulders is welcomed warmth. In the effort to work the suit down and off, I realize this is the first time I've ever shared this with anyone. How could I have stayed away for nine whole days?

Physically, half of me is exposed, but my soul – if I indeed posess one – is laid bare with abandon. 

I turn around to face her. " _You_ , Lois. I care about you."


End file.
